


All But the West Wind

by lyrithim



Series: Northbound [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Making Out, aggressively poor communication, omgcp heartbreak fest 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-09 16:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11672976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyrithim/pseuds/lyrithim
Summary: Will is forced to drop out of Samwell. In the end, Derek has to find out from Coach Hall, of all people.(Written for OMGCP Heartbreak Fest 2017.)





	All But the West Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [akadiene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akadiene/pseuds/akadiene) in the [OMGCP_Heartbreak_Fest_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/OMGCP_Heartbreak_Fest_2017) collection. 



> This story is written for the OMGCP Heartbreak Fest 2017. What’s posted here is self-contained and fulfills the prompt on its own, but there is a sequel that will be posted soon. Hope you enjoy!!
> 
> Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://omgcpheartbreakfest.tumblr.com/) on the omgcpheartbreakfest tumblr page!

Derek waited for Will in Faber on the last day of school.

Sneaking into Faber had become his, Will’s, and Chris’s tradition over the past three years, starting when the three of them dived in past three in the morning after Chris lost his student ID during Hazeapalooza. Since then they had come here after birthdays, after Kegsters, after games and championships. So of course they had planned on meeting here again before they parted ways for the summer.

But Chris had texted moments ago to apologize—his grandmother was visiting after all, and he wouldn’t be able to make it to this last little shinny of theirs before the end of their junior year. Derek had reassured him he was happy that Chris’s grandmother finally came, and Will would be too. They both knew how much that woman meant to him. But Derek didn’t text Will to cancel their Faber hangout. He was going to, then he stopped himself, because he had a great idea—as he often did, when it came to tormenting Will.

He was going to challenge Will to a one-on-one scrimmage. Will would say no, of course, but Derek would _dare_ him. Oh, he would _dare_. He would dare Will to face-off against him, with the loser having to run naked through Founders’— No, to post an embarrassing love letter about the other in their class Facebook group— Oh, no, to _sleep top bunk_ —

Though that would affect Derek only, so maybe— No. It would only have the effect of riling up Will even more, from the _illogic_ of it. And while Will stood there on the ice, sputtering over the absurdity of him _ever_ being _stupid_ enough to take Derek up on those dumb stakes, Derek would dash past him with the puck skittering across the ice just a foot away. Of course Will would have no choice but to follow.

It was a brilliant plan.

Derek skated wide loops across the ice, carving out fantastical patterns the way normal people doodled in their notebooks. He was still waiting for Will, but at the moment he was so bored he thought he would try the double loop jump Bitty had demonstrated for them after their last game.

God, it was going to be weird, living in the Haus without the seniors. Derek had been ecstatic when the coaches announced Chris as next year’s captain, but Bitty was only a year above them—Bitty had been with them all three years, and he was in so many ways the best mentor they could ever ask for. Derek and Chris had learned so much from Bitty, on ice and off, and Will too—

“Nurse.”

Derek was startled enough that he almost fell, which never happened—well, not when he was in the rink.

“Um,” he said, making a popping sound at the end of the syllable. “Hi, er, Coach.”

Coach Hall stood at the stands-side exit, anchoring himself against the boards with one hand. Derek was so busted.

“I, ha, I can explain—”

“No need. In fact, I’m glad I found you here. Change up and meet me back in my office,” Coach Hall said, crisp, before slipping away.

After Derek locked away his skates, he texted Will: _lol just got caught by coach dont come. c not here. send someone to investigate if i dont leave in an hour r i p_

Derek checked his phone again when he left the locker room. Will hadn’t responded.

Coach Hall’s office was paneled with certificates and practically held up by trophies, but that was to be expected from an NCAA Division I head coach. Derek hadn’t been called to any office since Andover, and though Coach Hall certainly had grounds to do so now, Derek couldn’t help but feel the same trepidation as he had in his secondary school years.

“Take a seat, son,” Coach Hall said, gesturing at the plush chair across his wide desk.

Derek did. The chair was, as expected, uncomfortable.

Across messily strewn piles of papers and folders on his desk, Coach Hall continued, “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble or anything like that. I just wanted to talk. Check in a bit. Given, you know, recent developments.”

Derek didn’t know what he meant by recent developments, and he was too bewildered by Coach Hall “checking in” with him to give a reply. So he nodded and pretended to agree with an adult, like he was taught.

“It’s a shame, losing a player like that,” Coach Hall continued. “You understand, me and Steve both, we’d’ve liked to keep him for another year. This season was his best yet—all of your best season yet, to be frank—and that’s because we had some good leadership and a real coherent team. That’s rare, even when we had Jack Zimmermann on.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said, because he understood now. “He’s a good player. He held the team together.”

Losing Bitty would be difficult for everyone. Of course Derek, Will, and Chris weren’t the only people who saw his value. Bitty wasn’t the top scorer of the team, or the best defenseman, but Bitty had been the heart of Samwell Men’s Hockey for so many years. Derek didn’t think he and his friends had really acknowledged that Bitty was going to be gone until graduation the day before: Chris had bawled his eyes out, and even Will’s eyes were red-rimmed.

They would all need to train harder for the upcoming year, and Will, that overachiever, already was— Early Monday morning, Will had been missing from his bunk when Derek climbed down the bed, only for Will to march back to their room minutes later with his gear slung over a shoulder, cheeks flushed.

“But you understand, don’t you?” Coach Hall was pressing. “You understand that we have to let him go?”

“Of course,” Derek said. Letting go of good players was inevitable in a college team. “We’ve all said our goodbyes. He’s going to visit to check in with us, but he has his own life outside of school too.”

Coach Hall let out a long exhale, the sort old men did after taking a drag of cigar.

“Good,” he said, surveying Derek now. “Steve and I were afraid that you would take this decision the wrong way, which would be detrimental to our defense next year. The two of you did take a long time to sync up on ice.”

“Yes,” Derek was saying, but his mind was churning like butter, slow and heavy. A horrible thought congealed at the base of his skull.

“It’s no fault on his part, of course, what happened there to his uncle,” Coach Hall continued, reaching between two thick manila folders to pull out a sheet of paper. “That’s just life, sometimes. But the provision in the athletic aid agreement was clear. Even Division I scholarships in Samwell aren’t four-year guarantees, and he had known that coming in.”

Derek remembered returning to the Haus five days ago from the library and finding Will on the phone, one hand covering his eyes. He had ended the call soon after realizing Derek was present, and he coughed and turned away to hide his face in the soft shadows of their lamp-lit room. When Derek asked for specifics, Will had only grunted, “Family issues,” trusting Derek to not pry further. And Derek hadn’t.

“I did advise him to talk to the dean of students about reinstatement.” Coach Hall was scribbling something next to a roster of names. “You would probably know the situation better, but from what I heard it’s tough going on that side too. Student athletes don’t qualify for the same sort of aid regular students do. At least, it’s complicated. Bureaucracy at Samwell, am I right?”

_I’m never going to be as smart as the kids who got in the regular way_ , Will had said, apropos of nothing over breakfast the other day.

“Anyway,” Coach Hall said, capping his pen. He slid over the sheet of paper. Try as he might, Derek couldn’t get his eyes to focus on a single word. “These are the kids Steve thought would be compatible with you on ice. Of course, this is fairly last-minute, and it’ll be difficult for any of them to replace Poindexter—”

Derek stood up.

“I have to go,” he said. Then he ran.

 

 

 

A beige van was parked outside the Haus, the first digit of the plate—a 5—hooked into the claw of a lobster painted across the license plate. Derek had made fun of how Maine the plate was, the first time he and Chris had visited Will’s family up north. Will had told him saying shit like that was what got out-of-staters thrown into the harbor, and Chris had laughed.

There was no one in the van, only boxes in the backseat. Derek dashed into the Haus, barely greeting the freckle-faced teenager lounging by the sofa who he knew to be Will’s sister.

As soon as he entered their room, Derek said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It was unrecognizable now. The desk that they had fought bitter wars over for inches of territory was bare on the right side. The usual tangle of wires and various electrical knickknacks had been swept off the top of the dresser. The little _USS SMH_ motor boat model Will had built for his electrical engineering class was missing from the windowsill. The opened closet was missing its distinctive flannel. Derek felt as though someone had come in and tore out his most valuable belongings.

Except, of course, the actual owner of those objects was kneeling against the bottom bunk. The covers were half-stripped, revealing a slice of the bare white mattress.

Will looked at Derek when he came in. His gaze was unwavering.

“Hey,” Will said.

“You were really just going to up and leave without saying a single word to the rest of the team? To _Chowder_?” Derek demanded. “Just like that?”

Will swallowed. He went back to stripping the covers off his bed.

“I went to his room and told him a couple of hours ago,” Will said. Derek had been out with some of his English major friends. “Don’t blame him,” he added. “I made him promise not to tell you. Made him swear. I was planning on telling the frogs and the rest after things are more settled in Maine. The alumni too.”

He stood up and dumped the sheets into a cardboard box by the door. It looked to be the last box.

And despite all the proselytizing Shitty had done on healthy emotional expression away from toxic masculine norms, Derek couldn’t bring himself to say the words, _But what about me? Why did you tell him and not me?_ So instead Derek asked, “What happened? Whatever it is, we can fix it. We don’t leave players behind like this in this team. We go to Financial Aid—and if it’s really an issue with money, I can—”

“No.”

Will rose slowly. He finally met Derek’s eyes again. “You asked what happened. Last week, my uncle was diagnosed with lung cancer. Stage III.”

Derek dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry.”

He heard Will swallow. “He was—he had been supporting my family these past couple of years, and without that— Anyway. James is taking over his store in Portland, but that’s not enough to pay the bills, all of our bills. Uncle Quinton’s always liked me the best, out of all his nieces and nephews. So I’m going to take care of him in Langford.”

“You’re not coming back,” Derek said. “Ever.”

“No.” As Coach Hall had said, athletic scholarships in Samwell were not four-year guarantees. They had all signed the same agreement:

_Aid is renewed yearly and subject to reduction or termination if any of the following conditions are violated:_

  * _If the athlete becomes unable to compete in the sport he is contracted for—_



A corner of Will’s lips quirked up, and it was the most lackluster smile Derek had ever seen anyone muster. All of the fire had been pinched from his eyes, and Derek hated that with a fierceness he hadn’t thought he was capable of.

“I’ll be hunting lobsters on the side,” Will said, as though in reassurance. “Do what I’m best at.”

“What you’re best at,” Derek said, frustration ripping through the words, “is hockey. And—and computer science. I mean, all that coding that you did? You’ve spent three years at Samwell putting yourself through God knows how many projects. You’re going to work for—for _Google_ , or the CIA, or something just as wild—”

“Forget it, Nurse. Someone like me working towards something like that?” He was taping over the box. And it really was the last box, wasn’t it? There was nothing else left in the room that was Will’s. “I’m shit at coding, and I have the GPA to prove it. That’s why Financial Aid isn’t going to take me when the hockey scholarship is gone. I told Chowder the same thing.”

Derek looked out the window, to the sliver of sky in its great and limited expanse, and watched as a crow flittered across, briefly blocking out the light. Then he marched over to put his hands on Will’s shoulders, forcing them to face each other.

“You’re such an asshole,” he said.

Will said nothing.

Derek continued, “Why couldn’t you have told us sooner? Even if it was just last week, we could’ve talked it out with the dean, gone to a counselor—we could’ve appealed to the coach together, to Financial Aid.”

“Trust me. I tried all of that. It wasn’t going to work either way.”

“Dex—”

“I didn’t want anything to change, alright?” Will said. He was flushed, but his eyes betrayed him: tracing zigzags across Derek’s face, like he was trying to memorize Derek’s features. “I didn’t want to spend my last week with you rushing in and out of offices, trying to get at something that wasn’t ever going to happen to happen. I wanted to spend it like we always have— Fuck, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know how to tell you—” Tears spilled over the rim of Will’s eyes. When one caught on his lashes, he blinked, as though in surprise. “I— I’m so sorry—”

Derek kissed him.

He leaned back. “I—”

Then Will grabbed his face—blunt nails digging into the skin beneath Derek’s ears—and kissed him too.

Will backed him to the space between the closed door and their bedframe, pressing the length of him against Derek. He was warm and tasted like sweat, mingled in with bitter traces of tears. Derek wrapped his arms around Will’s waist to pull him closer, even though they were as close as any two people could be in separate bodies, occupying separate pockets of space.

In all of Derek’s imagined variations of their first kiss, this never happened: this dull desperation twisted into his ribcage, this overflowing need to hold onto Will and keep him _here_. Derek’s mind didn’t dissolve into an orchestra of sensations as his emotions transcended into sublimity. Instead, everything was too immediate and too sharp. It was like holding shattered glass.

They were supposed to have another year.

Derek was angry at Will again, because _what right_ , just _what right_ did William J. Poindexter have, to do this to him? So Derek leaned his weight forward, and now Will was bending back a bit to keep up, but yielding easily. Derek slid his hands up the curve of Will’s spine, between his shoulder blades, and ran his fingers through Will’s hair. He tilted his own head to a side and sucked on Will’s lower lip. Will made a soft trembling sound, and Derek tipped Will’s chin up to kiss him fully again.

At some point, Derek had walked Will to the bed, and they separated when Will fell onto the mattress, lifting himself up by the elbows. For a moment Derek caught the look on Will’s face—like Will was split right open, hollowed out—before Derek clambered into the lower bunk too and pushed him down, caged him in. Will’s eyes stayed open the whole time it took Derek to dip down and press their mouths together. The mattress’s coarse stitching dug into the sides of Derek’s arms.

When Derek did a particularly inventive thing with his tongue, it earned him a low moan, which traveled up a full octave and broke into a gasp as Derek accompanied it with a downward grind of his hips. Will learned quickly enough, and soon he was giving it back to Derek as good as he got, and Derek was weak-kneed himself. They matched each other’s rhythm as easily as they did on ice. Then Will sat up and hooked his arms around Derek’s neck. When Will was in control, he kissed sparingly, in stutters, reeling Derek in for slow, drowning seconds only to let him go again. Every time they parted, it seemed as though Will wanted to say something, and Derek desperately wanted him to say it. But then Will would lean in again, to swallow his own words with the kiss—or deliver them, inaudible, to Derek. Derek couldn’t tell. Inbetween, there was never time enough for rest, and never time enough to breathe.

Then Will broke the kiss altogether to nuzzle at Derek’s ear, across the prickly skin that was Derek’s growing five o’clock shadow. It was at this point too that Derek felt Will’s calloused hands slide from the curve of Derek’s cheek down to the base of his neck, to the straining muscles across his shoulders that were always sore after practice. The touch was surprisingly gentle, for all the causticness and barb that was Will in real life. And so Derek—who felt as though he could melt right into Will’s touch—refused. Because now—now Will was asking for too much, and Derek wasn’t going to give it to him. So Derek tugged him back to face him, and he dragged his teeth across Will’s lips as he pulled off Will’s shirt. Will obliged.

Derek buried his face into Will’s neck then, and he sucked at the tender skin near the underside of Will’s jaw. The lines of Will’s muscles flexed as his Adam’s Apple bobbed, and as he exhaled, he did so in shudders, like he didn’t know how to slow down to breathe anymore. When his work was done, Derek slid his hands down Will’s bare, freckled chest, his lips following—past the clavicle, down the sternum, to the rise and fall of Will’s abdomen.

Given enough time, they would have ended this entire affair with a short handjob, or an equally unsatisfying blowjob, because this was Derek shoveling the whole scattered, messy business into one far corner of his mind. This was Derek burying all the unspoken love he had for Will and razing the land. And Will was prepared to let him, because Derek asked, because this was what he wanted: all of Will, then none at all. But they never got to follow that trail of action to its conclusion.

“Billy?”

It was the voice of Will’s sister, coming from behind the door. It was muffled; Derek barely caught the end of the first syllable. But the word’s effect on Will was sudden and complete. At once all the fluidity in Will’s limbs fused into rigidity. The haze of arousal shimmering beneath their skin cooled, leaving an unpleasant stickiness. Will practically leapt away from Derek to pick his shirt off the ground.

“I’m almost done!” Will shouted. Derek remained numb.

Will hefted that last cardboard box to his chest, and then he made the mistake of looking at Derek.

Despite the transformation that snapped him out of—whatever it was they were doing, this was still Will. His bronze hair was tousled into unruliness, and he was panting, the same sound he had made beneath Derek’s hands. But his expression was familiar, one Derek had caught Will with multiple times over the past two years—longing, and regret thrown in. It was impossible to cut away Derek’s teammate, rival, and best friend from the boy who had kissed him so carefully on the lips just minutes ago. This Will was still Derek’s Will, and how in the world did Derek ever think he could force a separation between the two?

“I’ve got to go,” Will said, into the silence.

“Text me,” Derek said, because Derek was a sham, he had never truly bothered to build up a defense, and this was _Will_. He would give anything to draw Will back to his side, cup his face and kiss him again—for real this time. “Please.”

Will looked ready to say something, but then his sister called out, “Do you need any help?”

“Sarah is—” Will said. “I have to—”

Then he turned the corner, and the room was empty.

 

 

 

Derek spent much of the next few days (and the next few weeks, and the next few months) checking his phone for Will’s text. It never came.

 

 


End file.
